


The Milkrun Job

by walking_tornado



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walking_tornado/pseuds/walking_tornado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a heist goes exactly as planned.  Then there is today: a dead body, Eliot missing, Parker's rappelling line cut, and now the FBI involved.  Oh, and thow in an old adversary out for revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Milkrun Job

 

  


 

Milkrun

“Hey man, you got the time?” Eliot’s voice came out rough and scratchy, but it shouldn’t have been enough to make the preppy kid freeze and dash to the other side of the lamplit street.

He tried clear his throat without coughing, and winced when the motion made his lip bleed some more. Split lips were a pain to heal; the damned things kept reopening. He brought the back of his hand to his mouth to wipe away the trickle of blood. No wonder that university genius ran. Sissy.

Maybe it was time to move on.

His reset shoulder screamed at him any time he accidentally used muscles in his upper body—so pretty much all the time. He was sure that his quick slam to pop the joint back into place during the altercation had damaged more than the initial dislocation had, but at least he’d been able to use it again, which certainly had saved his life.

Eliot lifted his booted foot from the street and onto the sidewalk. His right hand hugged his left arm to his side to reduce the jarring from his steps, and as a side benefit, he was able to apply pressure to the still-bleeding gash near his shoulder. His left ribs weren’t broken but he wouldn’t rule out a fracture.

The swelling of his left eye obstructed his vision, so at the sound of a car coming from behind, he needed a full body turn to verify that it was harmless. The resulting stars and the blackness on the edges of his vision reminded him that he needed to make an effort to take regular breaths.

He still didn’t know the time.

_“Fletcher. Take him out.”_

_“Nate?”_

 

The corner store was deserted but for the one kid manning the counter. While it must have been near closing, it was the drizzle that likely kept most people away. Through the large front window, in between the stickers and poster ads, Eliot could see the kid texting. Otherwise the place was deserted. Eliot surveyed the layout of the little store from the window, ignoring the large drops from the awning that splattered against his cheek—it was probably too much to hope that they’d wash away the dried blood— and he made a mental note to have words with the manager. A place like this, with only one young worker on a night shift. . . the windows should at least be covered so that men like him couldn’t case the place from the outside. It wasn’t safe.

The kid started and looked up from his phone at the jingle when Eliot pushed open the door. Eliot heard the small bleep of the boy’s character dying. In his strange state of mind it sounded prophetic. Or maybe it was less of a prophecy and more of a memory. A memory of death. Again.

Eliot paid the kid no more attention, other than to note that he seemed a bit jumpy, and he made his way to the refrigerated items at the back of the store. The limp, despite his efforts, became more pronounced, and Eliot hated to think of how vulnerable a target he looked.

_“Don’t let go, Parker.”_

_“Behind you!”_

_“Agh. . . ’m fine. Don’t let go. I got you.”_

_“I think there’s a ledge . . . if I can just . . . almost. Knife! Knife, Eli—”_

_“Parkerrrr!”_

 

“C-can I help you?” the kid called from behind the counter, and Eliot continued his forward shuffle. Dammit, he couldn’t tune out yet. A little bit more and he could rest. He could still feel knife bite his shoulder and the slight loosening of his fingers as his body reacted. . .

_“Parkerrrr!”_

 

“Milk.”

“Huh?”

“I need milk. Peanut butter. Apples. Soup.” That should tide him over until he could get out again, because as soon as he stopped for the night, he planned not to move for days.

“No apples. Sorry. Peanut butter and soup: in aisle four.”

The kid made no movement to come around and help, and Eliot didn’t like the way his hand fluttered around below the counter. He probably only had a panic button, but there was always the possibility of a gun. Eliot’s sense sharpened and reassessed the situation in light of a possible armed assailant at his back. His awkward, pain-filled motions smoothed out as he blocked out the pain and shifted all his attention to his surroundings. He continued to the back and grabbed a quart of milk, breathing slowly and steadily. He’d initially gone for a gallon size, but, as it was, this would be enough of a strain; anything heavier, he probably wouldn’t be able to carry it back to the empty, unused apartment.

A quick scan of the soups showed only two tomato ones left. After a hesitation, he made his way to the counter, where the kid made an obvious effort not to flinch away, and set the milk down before going back to pick up the soups. He repeated the process again, and finally placed a loaf of bread (just past its sell-by date) on the counter.

The kid’s hand never rose above the counter, and Eliot’s synapses fired warnings.

 

_“Nate? He’s not armed. Parker! Parker fell! Can—”_

_“Eliot. I’m the one with the plan. Kill Fletcher.”_

_“Na—”_

_“Do it. Now.”_

 

“Long night?” Eliot asked the kid, hoping to make him relax. Nervous armed people did stupid things. He squinted at the nametag. “Carson, is it?” Hmm, squinting probably wasn’t the best idea; the kid looked spooked.

“I, yeah, I. You want to buy that?” Carson squeaked. As a favour to his ribs, Eliot quashed the sigh that had started. It would be nice if people didn’t assume he was out to eat small children. But he understood. That was simply natural instinct kicking in to warn normal people when monsters walked.

“Yeah, I’ll take this stuff. And those Band-Aids,” he said, pointing to the small boxes on the shelf behind the kid. The bandages weren’t nearly adequate, but he wasn’t steady enough to make it to a pharmacy, not without undue attention. At least these were the cut-your-own-size ones. The kid let the boxes fall to the counter in his rush to get them.

“Sure, here, take them! Take them all!”

“What?”

“No trouble, I won’t say anything!” The kid hastened to assure him, and his hands were waving in frantic keep-away gestures.

“What’s wrong with you?” Eliot blinked again. “I’m paying for this. You going to do it?”

“What?” Carson was almost crying now.

“Oh for crying-out . . . Ring these through so I can pay for them.”

Carson looked up, tentatively. “I thought—”

“Yeah, I get what you thought. Just do it.”

The kid’s hand shook as he passed the scanner over each item and placed them in a bag.

“That’ll be—” The wail of approaching sirens cut him off and he froze in terror, waiting to see Eliot’s reaction.

“You hit the alarm.” Eliot glared. It wasn’t a question but the kid nodded anyway, mouthing an inaudible “I’m sorry.” Eliot threw a twenty on the counter, and grabbed the bag without waiting for his change.

“Which way out the back?”

Carson pointed.

It wouldn’t matter if the kid admitted to the mistake, not if the cops took one look at him. Best case scenario would be them insisting on a hospital.

 

_“Is Parker okay? She fell! I saw her fall! Hardison, you there?”_

_“He’s busy. Is Fletcher dead?”_

_“Dammit, yes! Now tell me! Parker?”_

_“Dead. You think she can survive an eight story fall?”_

_“What!? Nate?”_

_“Follow the plan. Get out.”_

_“I’m going back.”_

_“No! You want to kill the rest of us too? Meet at the rendezvous point. Go!”_

 

His apartment was dark when Eliot opened the door and walked into the room he had only seen once before. Without turning on the lights, he dragged himself to the center of the empty living room and lay down slowly, and very _very_ carefully. He would not be moving any time soon. At least any blood stains wouldn’t show up against the dark brown ratty carpet. He suspected there probably were already other such stains. It wasn’t a good neighbourhood.

_“Don’t expect any forgiveness here. This fuck-up was all on you.”_

 

With clumsy, slipping fingers, he managed to twist off the plastic cap. After drinking straight from the jug, he simply placed it next to him; the fridge was unplugged anyway, and the milk wouldn’t last long enough to go bad. He used the knife in his ankle strap to rip off his shirt, one-handed, with minimal jarring. He slapped a tiny bandage over the deep gash in his shoulder and lay a balled-up strip of cloth over it, roughly fixed in place with other bandages.

He should probably call. . . someone. Maybe use of the emergency backup numbers he hadn’t used in years. But Eliot’s energy flagged and he held onto consciousness just long enough to wonder why Nate had wanted Fletcher dead bad enough to give Eliot a kill order, something Eliot had been certain would never happen to him again. Not with this crew. He seemed to have lied to himself a lot.

He cursed himself for having gotten used to having a team to back him up. It had made him vulnerable. Complacent.

 

The I in Team*

Stupid, stupid, stupid to go back, Parker thought, as she hurried through the dark hallway. Eliot would be the first one to tell her so when she found him. Her shoulder hurt from the strain she’d put on it, and from the throbbing, she figured that she might have sprained a finger or two. Hazards of the trade; she dismissed it.

She’d fallen. She never fell.

She paused at the door to the lab, and listened. Quiet. She inched open the still-unlocked door until she could slip in. Two bodies lay crumpled on the ground, and Parker cautiously approached them. They were breathing, and one was bleeding, but only a little, so Parker left them alone and continued towards the alarmed back door, the one that should only have led to a storage closet. It was open now. It hadn’t been when she’d left.

A foot stopped the door from opening. Eliot was nowhere to be seen, but he’d obviously been inside. She pushed harder on the door and succeeded in moving the leg enough for her to enter and step over the prone body. This one wasn’t breathing or bleeding, but his head lay at an improbable angle. She stared at it as she made her way around (avoiding beakers, and tubes, and strange liquids . . .) to set the transmitter on the computer.

A sharp burst of static in her ear startled her, and then she sighed in relief.

“What do I do with the dead body?” she said. She’d kept her voice low but it still stood out sharply in the silence, and she winced.

“Parker? Parker can you hear me? What’s happening? Where are you?” Nate’s voice crackled over the earbuds, and Parker narrowed her eyes. Usually reception was perfectly clear, regardless of the situation, but the comms had been doing that all night, when they worked at all.

She sighed at the time-consuming task of relaying this stuff to Nate when she could be doing something useful. “I couldn’t get in. The muscle arrived and I had to bail out the window. They cut my line!” Her facial expressions vacillated between anger and a pout. Every job. She always had to replace her rappelling lines. But they were usually simply left behind, not cut. She sometimes imagined thin black lines trailing from every building, so that she’s be able to swing along like Spiderman. “But you should have the files now. And there’s a dead guy here. And three not-dead guys.”

“You okay? Parker, are you alright?” Hardison’s panicked voice made her smile. It was nice that he worried. Unnecessary, but nice.

“I’m fine. Nate, what do you want me to do?”

“Who is it?” Nate said, and Parker frowned.

“It’s me, Parker.”

“No. The dead guy. Who is it?”

“Oh.” She snagged the wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open. “Fletcher. Brian Fletcher. Who’s he?”

After a beat, Hardison answered. “Department head. Chemistry. Forty-two. Lived in Springfield—that’s about 2 hours away. Moved here a couple years ago after the divorce. No kids.”

“He’s the one I have an appointment with tomorrow.” Parker could hear Nate’s frustration. “Eliot, you there? Parker, where’s Eliot?”

“He’s not here. I came back to look for him after his hand slipped.”

“Explain.”

“He was there when I fell. Caught me. But my fingers slipped. He’s not here now.”

“Nate,” Hardison broke in, “didn’t Eliot know you wanted to talk to this guy?”

“Yes. Yes, he did.”

Parker spied an extra lab coat on a hook by the door and threw it over the dead guy’s head. The head’s angle was kind of creepy.

“Okay, time to scatter. Something’s not right here. Parker, can you take care of the body?”

“Nate!” Sophie sounded horrified.

“This isn’t making sense. And until we know what’s going on, I don’t think we want people to know this guy is dead. Parker?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Good. Stay on comms. Hardison, go get her—“

“It’s okay, I’ll get back on my own. This guy has a car.” She twirled the keys on her finger, and smiled.

“But. . .” Hardison’s objections made her smile more. He really was sweet.

“Fine. Hardison, pack it up. Sophie and I will meet you both back at the brewery. Problems?” He paused but there were no more objections. “Eliot? Eliot, if you can hear me, meet us back home.”

Parker grappled with the awkward dead weight until she had it thrown over her shoulder. He had been a small man—thankfully—and she was used to hauling all manner of climbing equipment, but he was still heavy to carry, and she was relieved when she was able to get him into the trunk of the car. His car. It somehow seemed fitting.

When Nate spoke, a tinny buzzing noise in the backgound showed her that Nate was on the road.

“Sophie,” Nate said, “where are you? I’m a block away from the reception hall.”

“I’m in the lobby. I’ll meet you at the corner.” Parker thought it remarkable that Sophie, after only a couple hours in her present guise as Dr. Something-or-other, had been invited to the annual company supper.

“Fine.” Nate sounded unusually abrupt, and though she’d never been one to pick up on behaviour cues, Parker had the feeling that Sophie’s acceptance of the handsome executive’s offer had created some tension. Hopefully the guy could give them something useful about the University’s pharmaceutical research grants.“Parker,” Nate continued, “where did you put the body?”

“Trunk.”

Parker made a left turn and brought the car quickly back into her lane. The squeeling tire sound made her miss the start of Sophie’s question. “. . . to do with the body?”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Hardison said. She could practically see his rolled eyes. “Call the cops, maybe. Y’know, being their job and all.”

“But we can’t can we?” Sophie said, “because it’s Eliot. Do you know if he took, I don’t know, precautions of some kind?”

“Umm, I—” Parker began, before Nate cut her off.

“Parker, do you know if it was Eliot, for sure?”

“No. I didn’t see it.”

“But Eliot’s missing.” Over the comms it was harder to tell if Nate expected an answer or if he was doing his usual talking out the problem thing.

“Uh, guys. I got back their private security feed. It most definitely was Eliot.” Hardison’s voice sounded shaky. She thought back to a conversation she’d once had with Eliot in a mountain crevasse, about doing the right thing, and about how he and she could do things the others couldn’t. Hardison would never have killed someone.

“Eliot knows what he is doing,” she said aloud to herself.

“Maybe.” Nate didn’t sound like he believed it. “Hardison, can you make sure it’s not traced back to us?”

“Already on it. Wiped their copy and the backup. No one will know Parker and Eliot were ever there. Except the unconscious guys. One of them seems to be moving a bit.”

“What is a university doing with that kind of security?” Sophie asked quietly.

“Yes.” Nate’s thinking voice was slow and deliberate.

“And what do we do with the dead guy in the trunk?” Hardison added.

“Yes,” Nate said again, and Parker frowned, both at Nate and at the red light. He was usually more helpful than that. “We need to look at this again, from the start,” Nate continued, thankfully decisive again. “We missed something.”

 

* * *

 

Parker tossed the large bundle of coiled rope to the side of the door when she walked in. It wouldn’t trip anyone there. Hardison had been adorable last month, fallen on his behind, tangled in cord, and caught tighter as he struggled—oh, so many fun ideas! But Hardison’s displeasure as he got himself out of the ropes ensured that she now made a small effort to be aware of the others’ shortcomings.

She made her way to the couch and flopped down. This had been a child’s job; and as a child she could have easily breezed through the little that was required of her for this job. She’d almost been insulted when Nate had outlined her part in the pathetically easy plan. But she’d fallen. And the plan had fallen apart.

Parker looked around, noting the quiet. Sophie was staring off into the corner. She occasional threw frowny glances at Nate, who was staring holes into the wall, and sipping at his drink.

Parker looked up when the door banged open. Hardison dragged himself through, carrying an assortment of electronic equipment. He went over to the table, closed his eyes and took a couple deep breaths, visibly relaxing, before he efficiently plugged in his laptop, and made sure everything was synced. He ignored Parker. At this rate, those frown lines were going to be permanently etched into her face.

“Alec—“

“Not now Parker,” Hardison said, and his eyes never left his screens. She could feel her shoulders tighten and a pang of hurt hit her in the gut, but before she decided whether or not she wanted to leave, Hardison looked up. “Sorry. But, right now, you’re a distraction— a hot sizzling distraction, but still. . .” He sighed. “This is on me. Something got in, through my safeguards, my firewalls . . . and this job—a friggin’ milkrun!—has gone to shit.” his attention shifted back to his screens.

“I fell,” she admitted quietly, unable to look at him. She couldn’t let him go on thinking this mess was his fault.

“Yeah, oh shit, sorry, what am I . . . how are you? You need a hospital?” Hardison immediately let go his keyboard and took two long strides to reach her side.

Taken aback, Parker said, “I’m fine.” He stopped fussing when he met her puzzled stare.

“Oh, of course you are. Sure. I knew that.” They both looked at each other, aware that there had been some kind of communication gap, but too preoccupied with the current mess to figure it out. Nate stood abruptly, and banged both hands down on the table. Everyone turned to look at him, but no one met his eyes. Leaning forward, he stared intently at the large screen in front of the room, where Hardison’s multiple windows flashed open and closed faster than a normal person could assimilate. Parker didn’t try reading anything; it would just give her a headache—more of a headache.

“Okay,” Nate said, and his voice was a scary quiet. “What the hell happened?”

Parker half-expected to hear the usual clamor of her teammates vying to be heard, requiring her to speak even louder above the din. This time, she could have heard a pin drop. She understoood; she had nothing to say, either. The accusing emptiness, the lack of a fifth teammate, had thrown everything off.

“Tell me what happened. Someone.”

“I don’t know, Nate. I’m running it now.” The hurried voice was Hardison, but the monotone seemed incongruent. The tapping resumed, and the large wall monitors flashed images and screens faster than Parker could take in. “Gimme another couple minutes.”

“I fell.” The simple statement escaped Parkers’s lips like a curse. Abruptly she rose from her stiff seated position on the couch and stalked into the adjoining room. In her periphery, she saw Sophie make to follow her, to offer comfort, and preemptively shut the door.

“It was going so well. . .” Parker could still hear Sophie’s voice.

“We missed something,” Nate reiterated. “Let’s go back to the beginning.”

“Okay,” Hardison began, and Parker opened the door enough to see the screen. “Sophie went in as Dr. Sheena—“

“No, no.” Nate said, and Parker slipped back into the room so that she could better see Nate’s expressions as he spoke. “Go all the way back. We might have overlooked something small.”

“Oh, umm, well okay. So, Melanie Kinkaid came in to see Nate and Sophie. . .” Hardison began again.

“And,” Sophie picked up, “she wanted our help for her sister’s family. Martin and Laura Landry lost their baby in an unfortunate accident—a slip and fall—only Melanie said that it wasn’t an accident. She thinks that there was some sort of cover-up and her brother-in-law killed his child. Said the whole family was acting str angely.”

“And you said it’s not our sort of case, but then she thinks that the police are being bought off because his department is doing some kind of research for a pharmaceutical company. And that is our sort of thing,” Parker interjected in a rambling spiel from behind them.

Nate held up a hand to stop everyone. “Good. And what did we find on the husband?”

“Martin Landy. He’s clean. A couple parking tickets on campus, but. . .”

“Wait,” Sophie said. “As faculty he should have a staff parking pass! Why would—“

“Nah.” Hardison shook his head. “Places like this always give out more passes than they have spots available. It’s the guy’s first year here, and he’s a student too, postgrad, just teaching one of the intro level courses, so he’s waaaay down the hierarchy. Poor guy probably has to get in really early to get a decent parking spot.” Hardison turned to Nate. “We checked him, and Eliot . . .” He stopped and glanced uneasily around. Nate narrowed his eyes and made an impatient motion for him to continue. “And Eliot tailed him for a couple days. Even followed him to class. Nothing.”

“Right,” Nate said..“And I went to the morgue as a visiting specialist, and there was no evidence of any foul play.”

“Sophie?” Nate turned to her.

“I spoke to the head of research at the Chemistry department, Dr. Tuumi. It seems all above board. The grant was for student research into cell development—all very tedious—and not anywhere close to being adapted for medical use. Someday maybe, but now . . .”

“So we’re about ready to give up this case, chalk it up to a horrible accident, like the police reported, when what?”

“Well, then I found those payments.” Hardison put them up on screen. “I don’t know why I missed them the first time.”

The tap-tap of Nate’s pencil was clear in the silence. “That is strange,” he said slowly. “Go on.”

“Um, well, so we decided to look into it further and take a look at the computers in their research labs. And that brings us to today.”

“Right.” Nate looked up. “That’s stretching coincidence a bit too far, isn’t it? Finding those payments just as we’re about to call it quits?” Sophie narrowed her eyes and Parker chewed her lip.

“So. Today.” Everyone averted their eyes again, and then Hardison cleared his throat.

“First off, the comms were glitchy, from the moment we got there,” Hardison said.

“So we were able to be isolated.” Nateabsently fluttered a a pencil between his fingers as he thought.

“Now, normally—well, normally that doesn’t happen— but we would usually call it off right then.” Hardison kept his voice monotone, unaccusing.

“But we didn’t. I didn’t,” Nate said.. “Because I thought this would be easy.” His uninflected voice was self-accusing.

“Nate, we all though the same thing,” Sophie reminded him, reassuring. “We all signed off on it.”

“Except me.”

“Except Hardison,” Sophie acknowledged. “Break into a university lab: we all though it would be a cake-walk.”

“It is. It was,” Parker’s voice was hard. “Getting into the lab was boring. But the storage closet was impressive.”

“That was around the time we lost comms and the university surveillance went down,” Nate said. “Okay, Parker, walk us through it.”

 

* * *

 

“. . .and I fell,” Parker concluded. “Oh, but I caught the ledge below a window a few floors down. I couldn’t call to Eliot, so I don’t know what happened after his hand slipped. And I let the harness and bag fall ‘cause they were in the way,” she added as an afterthought.

“What is a low-security college lab doing with a security system like that? And on what? A closet?” Sophie shook her head. Hardison pulled up the photos from Parker’s button-cam and whistled.

“Damn, that’s impressive!” The image went shaky and they all saw, again, the two armed men rush Parker.

“They were just there,” Parker said. “And then Eliot was. I didn’t set anything off.”

Nate gritted his teeth. “I would have told you to pull back as soon as we saw the security system.” He clenched his lips together tightly, and let his glass fall heavily to the table. “Dammit! This is why we’re a team!”

Parker looked off to the side, and Hardison shot Nate a meaningful look.

“No, Parker, you didn’t do anything wrong. That’s not what I’m saying. But had I known what was going on, I would have remembered that comment I heard from the coroner about the increasing drug problem—‘unusually strong concentrations’—and I might have been able to put it together.”

“So what?” Hardison broke in. “You’re saying this is a Breaking Bad thing?”

“I don’t know what that is. But drugs, labs, high security, probable threats to the family, cut lines . . .” Nate walked over and held out the clearly cut end of Parker’s rapelling line. “This is organized crime stuff.”

“Why didn’t we see this the first time?” Sophie asked. No one had an answer for her.

“So are we just not going to talk about Eliot?” Parker said. It created an uncomfortable silence, as so many of her comments did. “He killed that man, didn’t he? Mr. Fletcher, the husband’s boss, the drug dealer. After I went out the window.”

“Drug maker—slightly different,” Nate said abstractly, as if his mind were elsewhere.

“It appears so,” Sophie told her.

“No, Eliot would never kill an unarmed man,” Hardison said.

“At least, not anymore,” Parker amended. She looked at Hardison; his lips pursed and he gave a small incline of his head in acknowledgement of their friend’s sketchy past.

Sophie glanced up at them all, and Hardison half-expected a cartoon light bulb above her head. He waited for her to speak and hopefully clear everything up.

“'His honour rooted in dishonour stood, and faith unfaithful kept him falsely true,'” she intoned.

“Ooookay,” Hardison said slowly, and shared a glace with Parker. She suspected his cluesless expression mirrored her own.

“Tennyson?” Nate said with a small knowing smile.

Sophie beamed. “Of course. Lancelot and Elaine.” Then her face fell and she looked around in expectation. Hardison just raised his eyebrows at them both and waited for the translation.

“What Sophie is saying,” Nate said, “is that Eliot killed Fletcher because that’s what he thought I wanted him to.”

“Why would he think that?” Parker stared at the photo of Fletcher on the screen, willing him to provide the answers.

“Hardison?” Nate said, and waited.

“Wait. . . Aww, no! The comms. The glitch in the comms. Someone must have. . . hang on. Shit! There it is! Was. Another signal.”

“Any way of telling what it was?” Sophie asked.

“Naw, there’s no—“

“Well, we can hazard a guess that it was someone ordering a hit.” Nate’s voice was grim.

“No. Eliot would never take orders from someone else,” Sophie said.

“Even if he thought it was Nate?” Parker asked. Everyone fell silent again.

“Hardison?” Nate prompted.

“Well, sure, it’s possible , but—“

“Find out who hijacked our comms.” Nate poured himself another drink. It was only the second one of the evening, which was good, considering.

“I can’t. They’re not there anymore; there’s nothing to track.” Hardison raised his hands in the air, as if out of words to explain the problems he faced to people who had no clue how to do his job.

“How did she find us?” Sophie asked suddenly. “Melanie Kinkaid. It’s not like we’re in the yellow pages.” Renewed rapid tapping of fingers flying over the keyboard accompanied the flashing of the screen before them.

Nate chewed on the side of his cheek. “What do we know about Melanie Kinkaid?”

Hardison grinned while bringing up the information. “Well, she’s an undergrad. Young, hot. . .” Parker scowled and Hardison quickly moved on. “Declared a double-major in computer science and . . .oh shit.”

“I hate it when he says that,” Parker whispered to Sophie. Hardison had pulled up what looked like a class syllabus, and he zoomed into one corner. Parker didn’t know how he had even spotted the little mark.

“It’s the five-fingered hand of Eris,” Hardison told them, calling up about 20 different photos from his search engine to show them, all variations of the same thing. “It’s the symbol of—“

“Discordia,” finished Nate, and he frowned. More photos—from traffic cams and security cams—flashed across the wall as Hardison searched intently for something specific. Finally the large screen in front of them lit up with the photo of a man standing in front of a group of Portland college students. Hardison slumped back on his stool with a pinched expression.

“Oh, my God!” Sophie exclaimed. “Is that? ...”

Hardison’s lips turned up in undisguised distaste. “Chaos.”

Nate stood. “We need to find Eliot.”

“He’s hurt,” Parker said.

“Parker? I need to know everything,” Nate said, and from experience she could tell that his patience was running thin.

“I fell.” That encapsulated everything in her mind, and she already told them that, but she recognized that the others might need more words to grasp the situation. Parker pinched her lips together before continuing. “I was climbing to the roof when my line was cut. Eliot caught my hand when I fell past the window. The guys he was fighting didn’t stop . . .”

She’d seen Eliot absorb the punches, seen his face scrunch up when they’d hit his side with a fire extinguisher. He’d held on until the knife struck, then his fingers had loosened, just enough, and her hand slipped through. It was likely that some of the blood covering those men was his. Though why he’d leave those three alive, and kill the unarmed guy, Parker wasn’t clear on.

“He was hurt,” she continued. “I’m sure of it.”

“Enough for a hospital?” Hardison had taken out his tablet and was frowning at it as he typed.

“Yes. But it’s _Eliot_.”

“Okay, we’ll try his apartment first.”

 

* * *

 

Parker opened the door of Eliot’s apartment to let the team in.

“He’s not here,” she told them, and she crossed back to the window to secure it again. He wouldn’t take kindly to her intrusion; best he not know.

“Okay. Hardison, have you found his alternates?”

“Not yet. The man’s a bit paranoid.”

“Keep looking.”

“What do we do about Chaos?” Parker asked. Nate shook his head.

“Nothing. Not right now. We lay low for a bit. Rushing in is only going to get someone killed. First we need to let Eliot know what’s going on.”

“Hey, I think I found something.” Hardison looked up from his device. “Police were called to some corner store. Guy tried to steal food and bandaids . . . maybe. It’s not real clear. Anyway, description could match Eliot. I’m checking street and security cameras. . . give me a sec. . . There. Got him. He’s not looking that great, Nate. That’s about a half-hour ago.”

“Let’s go. Oh, and Parker, what _did_ you do with the body?”

 

 

The Law of Nature**

He was a god. Or maybe _the_ God. No, way more awesome than that. With a large giddy smile, he hit ‘enter’ and sat back to watch the scurrying begin. As he watched via the borrowed security feed, the first of the poor saps noticed his handiwork. He steepled his hands in satisfaction and barely resisted indulging in a comic ‘bwrahaha’ laugh.

“Excuse me, Professor Mason?” He looked up at the earnest-faced young lady standing beside him, and sat up straighter.

“Uh, yes?” He couldn’t quite place her. Two coffee shop patrons jostled her as they rushed by with frothy lattes, probably late for class. It really wasn’t a good spot for her to be standing.

“Hi. I’m in your computer forensics class. Melanie,” she said.

“Oh right, of course. What can I do for you, Melanie?” His eyes were almost level with her breasts and he couldn’t help letting his Dr. Stephen Mason persona ogle a bit. His cousin, this persona’s namesake, was the most straight-laced stick-up-the-rear douche that ever lived. Tarnishing the man’s name always left a nice warm feeling.

“It’s about my presentation on Friday. Can I get an extension? I know! I know,” Melanie continued in a hurry, obviously correctly interpreting his expression, “that you said no extensions, ever, but . . .”

“Was that unclear? Maybe I should have said ‘never ever’?” Her figure was obviously her only asset. Morons did not belong in his classes.

He hadn’t planned on her tears.

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just that—I’m sorry. I just. They. And I can’t.” She collapsed on the empty chair across from him as if her legs could no longer support her. His laptop screen darkened as his screen-saver kicked in, and instead of watching the satisfying expression as the government tools tried to unravel his actions, he was left looking at two stylized arrows pointing at each other, ping ponging across a black background. He sighed.

“Okay, what’s wrong,” he said.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she hiccupped, and tried unsuccessfully to pretend that she wasn’t a collapsed mess in front of her professor. Her hot, brilliant professor, with godlike skills. . .

“It’s my sister,” Melanie sobbed. “I think her husband killed their baby.”

Well, he wasn’t expecting that.

Melanie went on about inconsequential crap, like her sister’s strange behaviour and everyone’s devastation about the baby. He almost missed her glossing over the one important bit in all her slew of words. The brother-in-law, the one she suspected of murder, worked for Brian Fletcher. That put a whole new spin on things and he began to listen more attentively, though he’d immediately dismissed her conclusions. That schmuck of a husband wasn’t a killer. But he did work for one.

His folder of the university faculty’s dirty little secrets primarily consisted of boring infidelities and the occasional student dalliance. Fletcher, though, had proved to be far more interesting: mob ties, drug, threats to assistants to keep them quiet. The Chemistry department was not a part of Portland Maseeh College of Engineering and Computer Science—cripes, what a name! Whoever came up with that mouthful?— and was located in a separate building. Still Fletcher needed watching to ensure the man’s activities didn’t touch “Professor” Mason. No one had yet connected Professor Stephen Mason to hacker Colin Mason, despite the same last name, and he had set up programs to crawl around the web and flag any of almost two dozen keywords, to maintain his comfortable anonymity.

Fletcher, with his threats, had now apparently graduated to child-killing. This news, on the heels of his near run-in with Sophie Devereau at some god-awful play that his students had invited him to, threatened the pleasant little niche he had made for himself.

Leverage. Fletcher.

“Let me think about it,” he told Melanie, as he packed up his things. “There might be something I can do.”

That night he watched Fletcher unlock the lab door through the school security cameras. The man had to die. He observed the trio of armed men trailing Fletcher. Killing him outright was not only inelegant, but now that the idiot had brought organized crime to campus, it was also too dangerous. Bombs had proved to be unreliable in the past, so he ruled that out too. He was, he concluded, simply not the right person for this job. He needed a hitter.

Then he smiled.

“I can’t really help you,” he told Melanie the next day after class. Then he passed her a torn piece of paper with an address written on it. “But I know who can. Go here and ask for Nathan Ford. And tell him the story exactly how you told me.”

“Thank you, Dr. Mason.” Melanie wiped at the unbecoming tears—more of them!—and tried a smile. “Hey,” she said, looking at his screen-saver. “Isn’t that, like, a symbol for chaos, or something?”

“Yes," Chaos smiled, "it is.”

 

* * *

 

“They won’t do it!”

Chaos held the phone away from his ear as Melanie sobbed, and wished for a way to reach through the phone and slap the woman.

“They said to contact the police,”she continued. ”That this isn’t something they could help with.”

Ford was such a prissy bastard, but he needed Spencer. “I’m going to class,” he told her. “The one you’re in—the one that you will fail if you don’t show up. We can talk later. Don’t call.” There was a definite limit to his patience.

Planting some fishy money transfers took up the last few minutes of his class, while his students worked away on a problem that only maybe three or four of them could actually solve correctly. After some complaints in his first year at the college, he had to give students points for effort, so long as their work demonstrated some half-assed grasp of the concepts. He now left most of the grading to his TAs.

He stopped beside Melanie as the woman packed up her things. Her eyes were still red.

“It’s fine now. They’ll change their minds by tomorrow,” he said. He happily put up with the renewed tears since her breasts pushed up against him in interesting ways as she clung to him. He copped a feel under pretense of consoling her, as she garbled on about how grateful she was.

 

The next day, he was in the middle of demonstrating a particularly ingenious bit of virus coding (his own, of course), when his tablet beeped an alert that someone had accessed the security cameras in the chemistry lab. That must be Hardison. Damn it! He hadn’t gotten to the brilliant part yet, and the students didn’t seem impressed enough. It was almost as if Hardison was doing it on purpose.

“Well, I’m feeling magnanimous today. You all get to leave early. Buuut, you guys get to try your hand at finishing this section of the code we’ve been studying. Let’s see how your skills—and I use that term _really_ loosely—compare to the original author’s. Be prepared to share your code.” He smirked. It would fun to watch them bumble around. Pathetic losers.

When the last of the students had left the classroom, Chaos let the fake smile fall and walked to his office where he locked his door. Intense and serious, he sat down to his computer and called up the camera feeds. Hardison wouldn’t notice his passive presence, and his backdoor access to the system had been in place for months. He sat back and to watch after sending out an email to cancel his evening class.

A short time later, he spotted the first of them. Parker—mmm, that body—walked by. She wore a messenger bag and held a textbook, and she walked beside a group of students, blending in. He saw her casual glance towards Fletcher’s chem lab as she walked by the open door. Her mouth moved, and Chaos narrowed his eyes. He needed access to those comms. It would be delicate work that needed a light touch to go undetected by Hardison. A challenge, how fun!

He methodically infiltrated Hardison’s system, getting in through the far less secure university surveillance system Hardison had accessed. With a flourish, he pressed the enter key, and gave a wide smile as the team’s voices came through his speakers. The first one he heard was Spencer’s, and he began scanning through all the camera feeds to locate the man.

There. With a bookbag slung over a shoulder, and wearing glasses, jeans and a t-shirt, Eliot walked into the lab. He coaxed the assistant, Melanie’s dimwitted brother-in-law—Karl, Kevin, something with a K— Landry, aside with some bullshit story about an incorrect grade on his assignment. As soon as the man was out, Parker slipped in.

From the hallway camera, Chaos saw Professor Fletcher himself exit from what should have been the supply closet, and which he had turned into his little drug op. He had sharp words for the stray student alone in his lab, and immediately sent Parker away.

He listened in annoyance as the team made plans to be back later that night to investigate the previously unknown little room.

Frowning, Chaos exited Hardison’s setup, leaving behind a little backdoor access program, one that should appear benign if the man were to run a sweep.

 

***

 

While he munched on nachos and washed it down with cream soda in his dim lit apartment, Chaos listened to the inane chatter on the comms: Sophie commented about the rain and how everyone at her evening supper or whatever would now be inside; Hardison bemoaned the weather system that must be messing up the communications (Chaos smiled); Spencer relayed that there must be reinforcements along the wall because of some special rain sound. Parker said little, and Nate said nothing this time as he waited for the plan to play out.

“I’m in. Something isn’t right.” Parker’s succinct words thankfully shut everyone else up. With a couple keystrokes, Chaos isolated Parker and Spencer’s comms.

Movement appeared in successive camera views and four people made their way up the elevator and down the hall. Right on time. Chaos smiled to see the three men enter the lab, led by Fletcher, who seemed particularly unsettled this evening. His mouth moved quickly, and he used large spastic hand gestures as he defended himself against false allegations. Fletcher hadn’t had a scheduled meeting with his mob contacts but Chaos had made certain comments to particular people.

Chaos sighed in annoyance as he identified, not the head of the organization, but the next-in-charge, with two unimportant lesser members. Not ideal. Still, the rival organization should be properly grateful for their deaths; the awesomeness he had planned in New York next month would require the assistance of some of their contacts.

Chaos saw no sign of Parker when Fletcher unlocked the door, but he heard the whispered, “Eliot!”

“Here.”

And voilà: targets in close proximity to a hitter. Now, to aim and fire.

 

 

* * *

 

“Parkerrr! Noooo!”

Well, that was unexpected. Chaos’s brow furrowed, and he made no other movement but for the downturn of his pinched lips. Parker had been a vision, so sexy and limber, a joy to watch. Tragic. He shrugged it off and turned his attention to his hitter. His very angry and violent hitter. In an impressively little amount of time, the muscled and armed assailants had been subdued.

“Nate? Dammit, Nate, you there? Parker. Parker fell. I’m going after her.”

Chaos fumbled the keys in his haste to reply. Then he took a fortifying breath and typed out,“No.” Ford’s voice sounded out loudly across the comms and Chaos reduced the volume. Recording Ford’s voice had been the foresight of genius.

“Nate, what . . . “

“We got it. Stay there.” The inflection was slightly off on certain words, but with a bit more time, that could easily be fine-tuned. Besides, it wasn’t enough to notice, not unless someone listened for it specifically. Spencer was sufficiently distracted by the thief’s demise, that any irregularity went unnoticed.

“Fletcher. Take him out,” Chaos said, as Ford, via the computer. He smiled: this was a riot. He perched on the edge of his chair to stare intently at the screen. He could just make out Fletcher in the hidden lab, cowering away from the altercation.

But the hitter wanted to go after the thief, as if she’d have survived an eight story fall.

“Do it. Now.” Chaos overrode his objections. “Kill Fletcher.” He paused, searching for the right words. “He cut Parker’s line.” A lie. It had been done by one of the now-unconscious mob guys; that much he’d been able to see. Spencer made killing someone look so effortless. Chaos felt the Cheshire cat grin spread across his face. He only half listened to Spencer talking as he began writing a note to the mob boss whose men had just be trounced. He wondered if they would kill the Leverage crew one at a time, slowly, or all at once. At the very least, they would have to leave: Portland would be an unhealthy place for them now. What a satisfying day!

“I’m going back.” Spencer. Better make this clearer for him.

“No,” Chaos insisted, as Ford. "You want to kill the rest of us too? Meet at the rendezvous point. Go!” Spencer’s movements were of restrained violence as he tore himself from the window the thief had jumped from, and Chaos couldn’t keep from adding one more dig, to slam the idea home. “Don’t expect any forgiveness here. This fuck-up was all on you.” Half-way across the room, Spencer stilled. Statuesque, he cast a look around the room, at the bodies in front of him and at the body in the adjoining room.

Chaos cocked his head to the side and wondered what he was thinking. Then he watched the man make his way out of the building, with increasingly awkward movements, as if he suddenly realized that he had injuries.

Smiling, Chaos released the security camera feed. A few more keystrokes and he had restored their comms. Served them right for encroaching on his territory. Before he went to bed, he sent an anonymous tip to the local police. Hardison would soon wipe the recordings, but Chaos took his personal backups and made small adjustments to show the assistant leaving the room after the murder had taken place. Fletcher had threatened Landry’s family and had murdered his child to ensure his silence about illegal goings-on. Excellent motive. People had killed for less.

 

The Law of Man**

Agent Todd McSweeten spied his keys and, with a victorious “Aha!,” he snatched them from under the coffee table. He brought his travel mug to his lips and paused to savour his first sip of coffee, a needed wake-me-up this early in the morning. He went to take a larger sip as he opened his front door, but inhaled it instead in surprise when he nearly stumbled over a large body-shaped lump on his doorstep. Choking, he coughed it out, and a patina of brown spray landed over the white . . . lab coat?

When his coughing spate abated and he caught his breath, he hurried forward.

“Hey, oh, hey, sir, I’m so sorry about that! Sir, are you alright?” There was no response, and a gentle shake to the guy’s shoulder didn’t budge him. Todd carefully stepped over him and crouched down. He attempted to gently shake the man`s shoulder but the stiffness of the body prevented the movement. He took several steps back and took out his cell phone.

 

* * *

Todd sat in his boss’s office, going through the story for the seventh time. He had nothing helpful to tell them: he opened his door this morning and almost walked over a dead body. No, he had heard nothing during the night. No, he was not acquainted with the person. No, there should be nothing in his open files that would lead to this. Well, there had been a mob thing a few years ago, but . . . Of _course_ , he’d wait here for Internal Affairs to come by. Shit!

Local police had questions, his co-workers had questions, his boss had questions, and Internal Affairs had lots of questions. A dead body left on the doorstep of an active FBI agent was clearly meant to intimidate. Usually the tie-in was a lot clearer, Todd mused, as he leafed through his case folders again, searching for a clue. With intimidation tactics like this, the bad guys usually wanted it clear to which case the body should be linked.

A file folder landed on his desk with a thwack, and he looked up to see his boss standing next to his desk. He hadn’t noticed her walk up.

"Tip about a murder came into local police last night,” she said. “There was no body so they dismissed it as a student hoax. But now we have the body.” As Todd pulled the file to him and flipped it open, she continued. “Doctor Brian Fletcher. There’s also evidence of a meth lab, so your DEA liaison should be arriving soon.”

Todd grimaced but nodded.

She fixed him with a glare. “They get our full cooperation. In the meantime, go down to the Police Bureau and pick up whatever notes and evidence they’ve collected; it’s federal now. I already cleared it with the commissioner and sent in the forms, so it should be ready for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

***

 

Todd descended the last of the building's front steps, carrying a mostly empty evidence box, and ran into into someone who had just started to walk up. His clumsiness sent the young woman’s drink all over the sidewalk.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you alright?” A smile spread across his face as he recognized the young blond woman. “Agent Hagen!”

She gaped at him, and seemed momentarily frozen. “A—Agent McSweeten!”

Todd cleared his throat. “H—Hello. Hi. Um, hey! Agent Hagen, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t expect to be here,” she said. Her head turned endearingly to the side, as if she spoke to someone else.

“I guess you heard. About the body on my doorstep,” Todd said.

“Yeah,” she said muttered, “that’s kinda why I’m here.”

“Oh. Oh! You must be my DEA liaison!”

“Umm, yes, okay. Yes, I must,” she said. Then louder, “I’m the DEA liaison!”

“I didn’t know you moved to narcotics. It’s just that you were so awesome at the undercover stuff. Not that you’re not stunningly awesome now . . .” He thought he saw a faint blush caressing her delicate cheekbones.

“So . . . both our departments came in on this,” Agent Hagen said, and Todd gratefully took the out before he embarrassed himself.

“Yeah, well, once we can determine what it means and who sent it, DEA can have it.”

“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.”

“A dead body on an FBI agent’s step?”

“Maybe it was a . . . a gift.”

“Gift? A murder victim?” Todd looked at her, perplexed, until he realized that she must be joking. When he wiped the tears from his eyes, and caught his breath, he returned her timid smile with a large one of his own.

“Thank you! I can’t tell you how much I needed that.”

“You needed the body?” Her deadpan floored him, and he burst into laughter again.

She shrugged, then nodded. “Oh, okay. Whatever I can do to help.” Her punch to the shoulder rocked him back a bit. She was strong, especially given her size. A simply amazing woman.

He saw her take a closer look at the box he carried and he quickly tilted it so that she could see that the official seal was still unopened, and the chain of evidence signatures were all present. Figures that she’d be a stickler for protocol.

“You got all that?” she said.

“This? Oh yeah, it’s nothing. Not heavy.” He lifted the box higher to demonstrate and would have slapped himself for the childish showing-off had both his hands not been occupied. He felt the loud rush of blood to his head, and really wished that just once he could put his best foot forward around Agent Hagen.

She looked at him in surprise, almost as if she hadn’t really been talking to him. He cast a surreptitious glance around, but no one was nearby.

“Shall we, um go somewhere and talk. A—about the case. We can go over it at the station. I have to bring this in anyway. And you can, well . . . come with me. If you want.” He’d been a lot more suave asking out his high school crush to the prom.

Todd took a step back as someone suddenly appeared beside her.

“Agent Thomas! Glad to see you again.”

“Mmhmm.” Agent Thomas didn’t sound as if he was having a very good day, and Todd was struck again by the feeling that the tall dark man didn’t like him very much.

Hagen had turned an alarming shade of white, so much so that Todd feared she might pass out.

“Is he . . .” Her words were no more than an exhale.

Thomas squeezed her shoulder and leaned in closer as he said, “He’s fine. Asking for you.” She slumped against him with a relieved smile, and Todd thought her eyes seemed extra bright.

“Where?”

“Well, I left him with So . . . a friend, but whether he's still there . . .” Thomas said, then continued, more loudly. “I wonder where he would be right about now.” Todd wondered if Agent Thomas was trying to include him in the conversation. But then both gave tiny nods, and Thomas said, “Good to know.” It was a rather odd exchange, and Todd narrowed his eyes as he tried to piece it together.

“Gotta go—see you later.” With an abrupt wave, and without waiting for his response, Hagen took off at a run.

“What? But the case. . .” Todd sputtered at her quickly retreating back.

“Sorry.” Agent Thomas didn’t sound sorry at all as he watched Hagen leave. “It’s a family emergency. Her . . . brother was mugged. Nearly died last night.” Thomas’ face took on a pinched expression, and Todd thought that he must have been pretty worried himself.

“Oh my—of course she should be with him! Have they found out who did it?”

“Oh, they found him alright, sneaky bastard,” Thomas muttered. “In fact, they’re working on bringing him down as we speak.”

“Good. If there’s anything I can do—”

“Y’know what would help? If we could take care of this dead body of yours.”

Todd nodded. “She should focus on her family. Come on, let’s take a look at what’s in here.”

“Lead the way,” Thomas said. Todd remotely unlocked his car and went towards the trunk, when Thomas stopped him. “Looks like you got ticketed,” he said and nodded his head towards Todd’s windshield. “Here, I got the box.”

“Shit. Thanks.” Todd handed Thomas the evidence box and took the ticket from beneath his windshield wiper. Technically he wasn’t supposed to let anyone else handle the box—a chain of custody thing. He looked up and gave himself a mental shake when he saw Thomas’ patient, smiling face. In this age of suspicion, it was all too easy to suspect even proven friends.

“I could have sworn I paid enough for at least a couple hours. Huh.” He waved the ticket, and sighed. “With how today has gone, I guess it’s to be expected.”

“Where would you like me to put this? With us or in the trunk?” Thomas asked.

“I’ll just put it in the back seat,” Todd said as he took the box back. He paused. It seemed heavier than before. Not by much, but . . . A quick glance at the seal showed it to be still intact. It had been a really long morning, and he obviously needed another coffee.

 

 

* * *

 

The Portland Police Bureau had done an impressive job in the short time they’d had the case and had gathered a lot more than his morning conversation with the police detective had led him to believe.

Agent Thomas’ suggestion, that the surveillance video evidence against Martin Landry had been doctored, proved to be correct. Todd hadn’t seen the infinitesimal changes that Thomas pointed out, but they’d sent it to the lab to be verified anyway.

There was a large printout of gibberish that Todd had looked at in confusion. Thomas had turned the stack around in his hands, so that it pointed the right way up and looked at him expectantly.

“I don’t know what I’m looking at,” Todd admitted.

Thomas’ eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

“This? Right here? This is your case,” he said, slowly, enunciating each word. It’s a printout of the . . .” He sighed and looked around. “Send this to your tech guys. Tell them to look for a small program that the intruder planted in the university’s security system. It’s . . . it’s almost all laid out for them with a bow.” Thomas narrowed his eyes and glared at the stack of paper. “You thought I wouldn’t find you. Mis _take_ ,” he said with a satisfied grin.They continued looking through the box’s contents.

“Hmmm,” Agent Thomas said, out of the blue, “since our victim/drug maker was a tenured professor at the university, maybe run the faculty photos through facial recognition. It could be interesting.”

Todd raised his eyebrows, and met Thomas’ steady gaze. According to some co-workers, that was the trade-off of getting help from covert agents: the frustration of knowing that information was withheld because of operational security. But Todd couldn’t fault the success he’d already had by following Thomas’ and Hagen’s oblique suggestions. He called for a tech specialist.

 

* * *

 

“I’m _fine_.” The voice was low, but Todd could clearly make out the words from the hospital hallway. “I don’t need a working shoulder to rip out his broken fingers and shove them into the damned computer while . . .” The rest of it was lost in the overlap of a second voice, female, whose words were indistinct but whose accented tone was soothing.

Todd was only mildy surprised to hear Thomas in the room. “Hey, hey, now! Not the machine’s fault . . .” Todd had suspected, when the man asked to leave at noon, that he was concerned about Hagen. “Oh, ah, okay, I get it. Not the time,” Thomas continued.

“Sophie’s right.” Ah! Todd couldn’t see her yet but he’d never mistake Agent Hagen’s matter-of-fact voice. “You should stay until you’re better.”

“I am better.” That was close to a growl. Hagen’s brother didn’t sound very like her.  
Todd kept a firm grip on his bouquet of flowers as he approached the open door. He saw a man in a hospital gown pulling off the monitoring wires stuck to him with his sling-free arm. The man glared at Hagen, Thomas, and the elegant dark-haired woman, who must have been the one with the accent. Todd received a glare as well when he knocked.

“Hi!” Todd’s gaze had gone directly to Hagen, where she sat cross-legged on the floor next to the window. “I just wanted to come and see how your brother was doing.”

“That’s so sweet,” she said, flashing him a delighted smile. Todd missed the next part of her response. Thomas’ loud coughing and clearing of his throat drowned out their budding conversation. The man hadn’t seemed sick earlier, so it was probably allergies.

“Her brother’s doing great. All better,” Hagen’s brother said. Todd waited for someone to introduce them, but no one spoke. Then Hagen’s brother inclined his head at the bouquet still clutched, forgotten, in Todd’s hand. “Those for me?”

“What? Well, they actually were for, um. . .” Shit! He hadn’t thought it through. Of course flowers should go to the patient. And now everyone was staring. “ . . . to brighten the room,” he finished. Hagen’s brother studied Todd another moment, nodded, and gave what might almost pass for a smile.

“Good choice. The Peruvian lilies work very well with the pink roses: classy but not overdone.”

“Oh, okay. Good. I’ll just place it by the window so it can have sun.” Todd moved towards the window where Hagen sat, but before he had gone more than a step, Hagen’s brother spoke up.

“No, you can’t do that!" _You blockheaded idiot_ , the tone implied. "Sunlight’s horrible for cut flowers. There. On the table. And did it come with floral preservative?” Her brother was looking at him again, and the scary intensity took Todd aback.

“I—I don’t know,” Todd admitted.

“Probably did. Check inside the wrapping. And we’ll need a vase—”

Agent Hagen sprang up. “I’ll get it!” And she strode past Todd before he could process what had happened.

Shortly after she left, Todd was surprised to see Mr. Dalworth arrive. He hadn’t realized that the consultant profiler knew the family personally as well as professionally.

“What did Parker . . .” Mr. Dalworth began, but Agent Thomas had another coughing attack. “Ah, hello Special Agent McSweeten,” Dalworth continued.

“Good to see you again, sir,” Todd said, and extended his hand to meet Dalworth’s firm, decisive grip.

“Can we please,” said the elegant woman in the corner, “talk about the insanity of him leaving so soon when he’s still recovering from. . .”

“No, _we_ can’t. I’m leaving.” The abrupt tone and the sudden stillness in the room sent Todd’s eyes from one to the other. Agent Thomas took pity on him.

“Come on. Lets grab a bite. I know that I haven’t eaten today, and you look like you came straight from work.”

“I did.” Todd remembered his excuse for the visit. “I wanted to tell Agent Hagen that we got the guy who sent me the body. So she doesn’t have to worry about not coming into the office today.” He rose to leave and froze, suddenly the center of attention.

“He’s in custody?” Dalworth asked.

“I went with the team to get him myself. Arrested him in the middle of his class. Do you know,” Todd said to Thomas, “that he’s, like, the top hacker ever! Wanted in several states, and—”

“ _A_ top hacker. More like a middle hacker. Not even . . .” Thomas stopped talking at a glare from Dalworth.

“Good,” Dalworth said. “It’s over.”

“Yeah, it is.” Hagen’s brother said from the bed and got to his feet. He listed dangerously and steadied himself on the bedrail. He hadn’t looked at Dalworth once since the man had arrived.

“Yeah, well,” Todd said, “I just wanted update Agent Hagen on the case, but I guess she left, so if one of you could pass along. . .” Everyone’s attention shifted as Hagen’s brother grabbed his pile of folded clothes and walked towards the washroom. Dalworth put a hand out to stop him, but didn’t touch the other man.

“Whatever he said to you, it wasn’t me,” Dalworth said and dropped his hand.

Hagen’s brother paused a moment. “That doesn’t make it any better,” he said.

“No? I wouldn’t give you an order like that, ever,” Dalworth insisted, then frowned at the man’s hesitation.

“Yeah? But apparently I would follow it. What does that—”

“Here!” Hagen had returned, and cheerily proferred a vase that her brother, after a long moment, took,. It was a very pretty one, and from where Todd stood, the intricately worked glass—or, more likely, plastic— looked like real crystal with gold highlights.

“You didn’t have to, Par. . .Sis,” he said. From the way he stared at her, Todd got the impression that he was cataloguing every old scar. He’d be a over-protective brother-in-law.

“Yes, I did.” She looked down. “I’m sorry I fell.” Her apology triggered simultaneous responses.

“What? You had nothing—” the injured man began.

“I told you, not your fault,” Thomas put in. “ It was my fuck-up. I missed it and you, and you . . .” He waved a hand in the direction of Hagen and her brother. “Don’t go man, I swear to you that it won’t happen again,” Thomas addressed Hagen’s brother, who had started shaking his head.

“You had nothing to do with it, either of you. Any of you.” He looked at Dalworth. “It was all me.”

Dalworth’s serious, slightly pinched expression never wavered, but Todd noted the tightening of his jaw. He said nothing.

“What?” Thomas said, rising, and he continued with emphatic gestures. “You’re not seriously doing the ‘not you it’s me’ routine. No. You’re not going to pull that. ‘Cause it’s bullshit, is what it is. Bullshit! This whole thing was messed up, and you don’t get to take on all that. I get my share, and even Parker gets hers!” Panting heavily after his outburst, Thomas glared at man, who looked stunned. “I’m going home,” Thomas announced to the room. “Ya all should think about joining me.” And with those final words, he stalked out of the room, followed by Hagen and the foreign woman, who gave Dalworth a pointed look first.

Todd took the opportunity to slip out behind them; he’d been wishing himself away for a while now, but hadn’t found an unobtrusive way to leave. Whatever family-type dispute was going on, it was none of his business. He stopped by the nurses’ station and sighed deeply when he realized that he’d left his jacket in the room. Hoping to be back before Hagen reached the elevator, he took large strides to the door.

“I killed a guy, Nate.” Hagen’s brother voice, while low, still carried to the door and Todd froze with his hand raised to knock. “He wasn’t armed and didn’t threaten me . . . and I broke his neck. Because I thought you told me to.”

Todd backed away from the door and bumped into Hagen.

“Hi,” she said. “I saw you come back. Everything okay?”

“Uh—”

“Hey, thanks for coming by. Sophie told me you solved the case.” She gave him a small peck on the cheek, and he could feel his face flush.

“I, uh . . . thank you. Wasn’t only me. I mean, I helped. A lot. But it was a team effort. Agent Thomas made some key breakthroughs. . .” Her smile increased and Todd lost his train of thought. He glanced back at the door. Fuck.

“I think your brother might be involved with something. . . um . . . shady,” he said. Agent Hagen’s eyes narrowed and he wondered if he passed her assessment.

“It’s just that I heard him say,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “that he killed someone.”

She stared at him. Her lips twitched and she gave an overly-loud guffaw. “You mean the bit about how he broke a guy’s neck?

His eyes widened.

“They’ve been practicing every night. It’s for a play. Sophie—the woman who was here—she has an acting school in town.”

Todd smiled in relief that there was a reasonable explanation. Then he felt like a fool for implying that her brother was a criminal.

“I’m sorry. I just thought—”

“That’s okay. They’ll be happy that you thought it was real. You know . . . actors. Who act.”

“Right. Okay, so I should get going. I have paperwork to finish up.” He took a breath and went for it. “ “Unless you want to get a cup of coffee?”

“Maybe another time. I’m going to. . .” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the room.

“Oh, yeah, of course.” He walked with her until they reached the door.

“I’m tired,” Hagen’s brother was admitting; he sounded exhausted. “I just want to go home.”

“Sophie had wanted to get your apartment cleaned. The carpet, well. . . but with everything going on today, she hasn’t been—”

The intensity and tension that had been nearly palpable before was now absent, and Todd figured that they must have finished their scene. He wondered how it ended; he would have to see about getting tickets. Maybe Hagen would like to go with him, sometime when she didn’t have family in the hospital.

“I didn’t mean to the apartment,” Hagen’s brother said.

“Good,” Dalworth said, and Todd heard some footsteps (Dalworth’s—it wasn’t slow enough to be the injured man’s) and the sound of a clap to the back, followed by a grunt. “Lets go home.”

 

* end *

  


**Notes:**

Thanks to [](http://wizbey.livejournal.com/profile)[**wizbey**](http://wizbey.livejournal.com/) for letting me bounce off ideas. With this fic I wanted to play around a bit with POV and with non-linear storytelling. Hopefully it worked well enough.  Thanks for reading. — WT

Written for [](http://leverageland.livejournal.com/profile)**leverageland** (Heist 10, Team Hitter). Not beta’d.

*Taken from an episode title of Buffy (season 4). 

**Taken from a quote by Henry Adams: _Chaos is the law of nature; Order is the law of man._

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt was taken from a Leverageland challenge: "Ruthless baby killer Mr. Fletcher of Springfield, Oregon has turned up dead on the FBI's doorstop. Who did it? Where in Portland Oregon did they do it? What did they use?" 
> 
> (edited: new summary)


End file.
